


The Weight of the World

by MomentsOfWeakness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Steve just wants someone else to be the strong one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally not written a fic to completion (even a short one!) in almost 2 years. Then I saw a wonderful piece of artwork by tumblr user kelslk that had me opening Word and writing twelve-hundred words of angsty Steve and comforting Thor in under an hour. I don't know what to do with myself.
> 
> The art this was inspired by is here --> http://kelslk.tumblr.com/post/102318826108/steve-rogers-fandom-bicycle-2k14
> 
> I hope I did it justice!
> 
> (This fic can really be read as either Steve/Thor, or just as a (very) intimate moment between friends and brothers-in-arms. I see it as the latter, but it's up to you how you read it. That's why I labelled it as 'gen' as well.)

Sometimes he just wanted to feel small again.

Being a superhero wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The news never talks about the exhaustion, about the bone deep ache that sets into your body when you’re taking down your thirtieth evil robot, when you’re pulling the hundredth civilian out of a crumbling building. The magazines show the shiny suits and the sharp weapons, but not the hollow eyes that stare across the city from a hundred floors up, wondering if you had just moved faster if you could have saved another life that day.

No one talks about the nightmares, the guilt, the need to keep going, keep moving, keep giving your every breath because there’s no one else out there to do it.

Steve is grateful for Doctor Erksine and the serum that changed him, made him something great and probably saved his life. His shoulders are strong, his back is straight, his lungs fill and release like well-oiled machines and not the scarred and diseased things they were before.

But sometimes, when a half dozen people are asking for orders, waiting for him to tell them where to go, what to do, how to save lives and stay alive themselves, when cameras are rolling and microphones are shoved into his face with reporters asking when they’ll fix everything, when they’ll do more, save more, be more than they already are, when Tony is stubborn, and Nat is quiet, and Bucky’s hands twitch with fingers curling around enemies that are long dead but still right there at the surface…

Steve just wants to be small again. To know that if he fell down, that there was someone there that could pick him back up.

No one placed the weight of the world on thin, fragile shoulders. No one looked up to a tiny, broken man and asked him to lead, expected him to do and say and be the right thing.

When he was small the only worry he had was for himself (and sometimes Bucky, with his slick smile and heavy-lidded eyes, who never knew how to say no to Steve or the girls in their neighborhood). Now he worries about his team and his city, about maniacs with armies of robots, about alien races bent on taking over the world, about demi-gods with delusions of grandeur.

All he does now is worry and try to do better, to be the perfect soldier and leader and hero that he sees reflected back at him on the tv, in the magazines, in the eyes of the people who call him oh captain my captain.

The glass in front of him is fogged with his breath, thin sheen of condensation obscuring his vision of the city far below. The sirens and flashing lights have faded, the people trudge on with their lives like they always do, and six exhausted heroes are tucked soundly into their beds, sleeping off the aches and bruises that signal a job well done while their captain worries and wishes.

Five.

There is movement behind him, a steady beat of footsteps landing as carefully as possible on the hardwood floors. Careful for Thor is loud and boisterous for everyone else; Steve can feel the steady vibrations of his steps, watches his reflection blur as the glass shakes slightly as the god draws near to his captain.

‘You should be asleep, Steven,’ the soft rumble of his words whispers across Steve’s neck, his presence at Steve’s back like a furnace in conjunction with the cold window at his front.

‘I’m fine, Thor,’ comes his reply, breath frosting more of the glass, hiding the always glowing lights of the city. ‘Go back to bed.’

A large, warm hand settles on his shoulder, strong fingers digging oh-so-gently into the blue fabric of Steve’s shirt. You don’t have to be gentle, he wants to say. No one else ever is.

Another hand joins the first and Steve’s head slips forward, resting against the window as Thor slowly and carefully tries to massage the tension out of Steve’s neck and shoulders. It feels divine, and Steve laughs at that, begins to relax as the tension slowly slowly eases to a barely there ache.

Thor’s hands are large, the width of them rivalled only by the Hulk’s, and rough with well-earned callouses. Steve has seen them tear monsters apart with little effort, but also hold small children so carefully, like delicate works of glass, able to break with the slightest pressure.

Children love Thor. They love his golden hair, and his shiny armor. They love the hammer and the boom of his laugh. They are never afraid.

‘You fought well today, Steven,’ Thor says gently, voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid Steve will spook like a wild deer. ‘You fought bravely, as you always do; and once again we have all returned home, thanks to your leadership. Today was a good day.’

Steve thinks about Tony and the plaster cast around his wrist where his armor had not held up against the hoard of their enemies; he thinks about the cut above Bucky’s eye that had bled like a river, needing seventeen stitches that Bucky had endured without a twitch or a sound. He thinks about the building that had collapsed under the weight of the enemy’s massive ship as it had come down, engine halted by a well-placed arrow.

He doesn’t know if there had been anyone inside that building. They will though; the news will tell them all about the battle tomorrow, the damage, the casualties, and Steve will listen, taking each name onto his broad, serum-strong shoulders.

Thor’s hands, never idle as Steve watches the city and worries and waits, slide down from his shoulders to his arms, squeezing gently as he turns Steve around, away from the window and his own reflection.

‘Every loss is not yours to bear alone,’ Thor reminds him, the soft baritone of his voice echoing through Steve’s chest where they stand so close.

‘I know, Thor,’ Steve says; a ghost of a smile barley touches his lips and he tries to turn away, to turn back to the city and the evidence of his failures, but Thor won’t let him go.

He pulls Steve closer, one arm wrapping around his back, broad hand splayed at the base of his spine, the other sliding up to gently, always so gently, cup the back of Steve’s head. They are intimately close, Thor’s arms like warm marble around Steve, their hips aligned, the press of their thighs together creating a heat that seeps deep into Steve’s aching bones.

He raises one hand, meant to kindly push Thor away, thank him for his kindness but remind him that Steve is fine, he is strong, he is okay because he always is, he has to be. But he finds he can’t put distance between them.

His fingers instead curl into the red fabric that covers Thor’s warm and solid chest. He doesn’t pull Thor closer; instead Steve leans in, lifting up just a little so that he can rest his forehead against Thor’s, their noses brushing together in the small space they have left between them.

He can feel Thor’s breath, warm and sweet-smelling against the dry skin of his mouth, and he lets out a deep breath of his own, his shoulders hunching in, his whole body reaching towards Thor, towards his warmth and strength and gentle touch.

‘You are not alone’ Thor tells him again, his lips barely brushing the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve shudders and sighs again, nods as Thor’s arms pull him in a little tighter and hold him close.


End file.
